The Nameless Luna – Book One: The Girl With Violet Eyes
The Nameless Luna – Book One: Chapter 11

I wake up back in the present, panting and gasping for air. I’m lying in my room in the villa, drenched in sweat, my heart racing, and my body trembling. I lie there in the dark, my mind replaying the nightmare over and over again. I can still taste the metallic tinge of blood lingering on my lips; I can still feel the suffocating weight of helplessness as Oscar ripped through me.
But I’m not alone.
Even after jolting awake, it takes me a few minutes to come to my senses, my eyes wide but unseeing. It’s like I’m coming gradually back into my body, surfacing from the depths of my nightmare. Someone is holding me, running a hand through my hair in a gentle caress.
Tristan is on the bed, holding me firmly as the nightmare unfurls its claws from around my mind. At some point, I tossed the covers off the bed, and my feet got tangled in the sheets. I’m wearing nothing but an oversized shirt Lucy must have left for me, and I’m trembling, curled up against Tristan as if he can physically shield me from the memories.
He must have realized I’m awake, my sobs catching in my throat and turning into panting breaths. He pulls away from me to examine my face, surveying my features and scanning me for further signs of pain or distress.
Even in the darkness of the room, I can make out the golden flecks in his eyes, framed by his furrowed brow. He’s not wearing a shirt, and I realize with a start that I’ve unconsciously dug my fingers into his shoulder, my nails leaving rosy streaks across his skin. He barely seems to notice.
He’s even leaner than he appeared with his clothes on, muscles carved into every inch of his torso. But in spite of his size, there’s nothing bulky about him; he’s elegant in a wild, natural sort of way, like waves in a storm or flickering flames dancing in a fire.
He looks more dreamlike than my nightmare. Oscar’s claws felt real, familiar, and feral. Tristan feels far less present somehow, solid but intangible at the same time. I reach out slowly, and his eyes dart to my hand as my fingertips brush against his cheek. He looks back at me, a hint of curiosity sparking in his amber eyes.
‘This is real,’ I tell myself, looking at him. Tristan is real. Oscar and his friends are not. It was just a bad dream. Just a bad memory. I’m here, in this place, on this night… with this man.
He says nothing; he asks no questions, whispers no sweet nothings, does not chastise me or berate me. He just sits there, wrapped around me like a living shield, waiting for me to come down and get ahold of myself.
I trace my fingers down the curve of his cheekbones, trailing down to the edge of his angular jaw. He has me cradled in his arms, one hand supporting the back of my head and the other pressed against the small of my back. My bare legs are draped over his lap, and he watches me wordlessly as I soak him in, telling myself over and over again that this is real.
My heart is still thundering in my chest, but it’s no longer because of fear. I should be terrified.
I’ve felt the hardness and anger of men firsthand, but as I peer up at Tristan, there is nothing even remotely hateful in him.
I brush my fingers down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, and down along his collarbone. I watch the muscles along his torse tighten beneath his caramel skin as I trail my hand softly across his chest with a feathery touch. My fingers glide between his pecs, and a chill runs through him, something new flashing in his warm eyes. I pull my hand away suddenly, clutching it against my chest and going rigid in his arms. He sucks in a sharp breath, and I’m worried that I’ve done something wrong, frightened that I’ve somehow angered him once more.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… I didn’t…” I mutter. But he just exhales slowly and shakes his head as if reeling something back into himself.
“It’s okay,” he says finally, his voice low and husky, barely above a whisper. He shuts his eyes tightly before adding, “You… you can touch me… if you want to.”
I do.
I’ve seen plenty of pretty males back in my own pack, but none like him. And none who were kind. Hesitantly, I unfurl my fist and raise my hand up toward him again, tracing the dip of his lower lip, surprisingly silky under my fingertips. His lips part slightly, melting under my touch, and an idea crosses my mind that makes color rise up to my cheeks and heat pool in the pit of my stomach.
I want to trace the soft lines of those lips with my own.
As if reading my mind, his eyes flicker down to my mouth, and I feel that heat spreading with me. He leans down, and I tilt my chin up toward him, my hand dropping to rest lightly against his chest. He smells like honey and smoke, and he’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. They brush tentatively against his, feather-soft and tantalizingly slow.
It’s barely the ghost of a kiss, but suddenly something cold and biting burns across my chest. There’s a slashing sort of sting over my heart, reminding me of the slicing agony that Oscar’s claws once inflicted, and I gasp, pulling away sharply.
“No!” I choke on the word.
Tristan’s eyelashes flutter over his golden eyes as he blinks in confusion, and I desperately wriggle out of his arms and crawl away from him, putting as much distance between us as possible without falling off the bed. I press my palm over my chest, over the crescent, scar-like birthmark right below my left collarbone, as I pant.
It happens so quickly, and panic floods back into me. That flicker of pain muddies my memories and nightmares like something stirring up dirt underwater. I’m dizzy with drowsiness; fear makes everything murky, but I catch the flash of hurt in Tristan’s eyes.
I don’t know what just happened, what that was. Before I can contemplate the words that might express my confusion or communicate what I just experienced, Tristan is on his feet. He moves with the speed and precision of a perfect predator. In what seems like a single, swift motion, he turns away from me, heading for the door with such resentment in his expression that I don’t know what to do with myself.
“No,” I say again, softer this time. He ignores me, taking another step toward the exit.
I’m sore and startled and still very much afraid.
But I don’t want him to go.